Planetary
by Highfunctioning Hufflepuff
Summary: In which John touches Sherlock, and Sherlock wishes for Things He Shouldn't.
1. Chapter 1

It's just fingers, the first time.

John's fingers on his arm. Not quite pulling, not quite restraining, but insistent and warm and _real, _the tips pressing in just slightly.

Except it's not just fingers, because it's eyes, too.

John's eyes. Looking at him like–

Sherlock's chest constricts and his head swims with a combination of panic and something else entirely.

And it's in that instant that Sherlock knows he's been _wrong. _

_ Wrong, wrong, wrong_.

Because once up on a time, that look was everything he swore he'd never want.

Now it's just _everything. _

And instinctively, Sherlock knows that _that's _how he wants to be looking at John. Like the doctor is the center of his universe, the sole thing deserving his attention. Like John's fate will be _Sherlock's_ fate, always. Like he lov–

But he can't. Doesn't know how. It's all there, swelling in his chest and unfurling like warmth where John's hand rests on his arm, but he just can't– he doesn't kno–

"Sherlock."

And then it's John's voice, low and sure, drawing the genius out of his panic and back to the darkened warehouse. Back to the stack of boxes they're hiding behind and the criminals they've been chasing.

"Sherlock, are you certain?"

And if John is aware that Sherlock's breathy _"Yes."_ answers more than one question, he doesn't show it. Instead, he lets his hand drop in the interest of drawing his gun and moves, swift and silent, after their quarry.

Later, when the chase is over and the case is solved, Sherlock imagines that he can still feel the heat of John's grip through his sleeve, and wonders what it might be like if John were to hold on and never let go.


	2. Chapter 2

_Second time. _Sherlock notes with interest. _Hands again._

Not the second time John has touched him, of course, but the second time Sherlock has felt... whatever this is.

_And only two days since the last occurrence. Will have to– _

His train of thought breaks off as the hand that before was only gripping tugs _hard _on his wrist. And it's as if that tug is a tether to the world, because it's only then that Sherlock realizes there's a voice ringing behind him, _(John's. Distressed.) _and that the rooftop he's running on ends.

_High. Too high for a safe drop and no other buildings within reasonable jumping distance. Can't stop in– _

But then there's another sharp _yank _and he's tumbling backwards with just enough time to think _ "Oh," _before the hand on his wrist becomes arms around his chest, locking him in a vice grip to the warm body behind him.

They land hard, John's torso solid and sure beneath Sherlock's when they hit the ground. There's a breathless moment where the both of them lie gasping on the concrete roof, and then the doctor is scrambling up onto his feet, jerking Sherlock from his sprawled position as he goes.

The detective has just seconds to gather his scattered wits before John is rounding on him, spine stiff, eyes blazing. "The fucking_ hell _were you thinking, Sherlock? Or did you just conveniently forget that this bloody shortcut _ends?_"

Sherlock knows he should respond to that, that he should defend himself, but he can still feel the impression of John's body beneath his, the solidity of the doctor's arms around him. He holds his hands up in a supplicating gesture and moves to step forward. His face creases with shock and pain as his ankle gives way beneath him. He looks down at said ankle accusingly, then up at John, then back to the ankle again.

The doctor sighs."Yes, alright. Come here." Even as he speaks, John moves forward, arms outstretched to support the detective. Sherlock accepts the help (and the touch) gratefully, leaning on John's good shoulder to take the weight from his traitorous ankle.

"Come on, let's get you home."


	3. Chapter 3

_ Fifth time. Oh, this is glorious. How could I have dismissed it? _

And it _is_ glorious. Everything about it. From the ungodly hour (half-two in the morning) to the biting cold to the just-solved not-at-all-boring case. But mostly it's John, giggling his high-pitched school-boy giggle without caring who hears and trying breathlessly to tell Sherlock that he is a genius.

"No... no, Sherlock... Slow down...!" Sherlock speeds up, just a bit, because he knows that John will follow, and listens to the giggles strewn between the doctor's barely-intelligible words. "Listen... Listen to me you mad wanker!" Sherlock pauses obligingly, as if stopping were his idea all along, and smirks down at his blogger.

"That..." John says, as soon as he's caught up, "was brilliant! Bloody incredible. Can't believe this is how we spend our evenings." Sherlock smiles.

"Oh, I don't know, John. It's not that unusual. I assure you, there are people living lives more exciting than ours."

John snorts. "Chance would be a fine thing. And anyway, even if there are, I'd bet few to none are fighting crime while dressed as ninjas." They share a look, and then John breaks down into giggles once more. The sound makes Sherlock laugh, too, and before long they are both struggling to breathe.

"Bloody hell." John wheezes. "We really did that." He plucks at his uncharacteristic black clothing. "I should get pictures for the blog." Sherlock makes a scandalized noise.

"You wouldn't dare. Have you decided what you'll call this one?"

"Ah, The Geek Interpreter, I think. And before you ask, yes. Yes, I am going to tell it like a story rather than a crime report and no, I will not be changing the title."

"Dull. And they say I'm the intransigent one." Sherlock scowls playfully, (and that's new isn't it? He's never done a playful thing in his life.) and John nods with mock-seriousness.

"That's because you _are _the 'intransigent' one, you git. If you were any more stubborn I'd win a medal just for living with you."

Sherlock makes a noise that's not quite agreement and they amble along in silence for a while, the pavement glittering dully beneath their feet and the cold nipping at their faces. Sherlock finds himself in the unusual position of wishing that the walk back to Baker Street were two miles rather than two blocks. The thought is patently ridiculous, and before long the two of them are nestled safely inside the flat with cups of tea and John is saying "I'm for bed." and shuffling wearily for the stairs.

As he passes by the sofa he rests a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezes gently, pats twice, and tries to form the words "Goodnight, Sherlock" around the yawn stuck in his throat. He doesn't succeed, but the effort makes something tingle in Sherlock's chest. The detective doesn't say goodnight back, but as he watches John ascend the stairs he thinks it, and wills the doctor the good dreams he deserves.


	4. Chapter 4

The ninth time hurts.

It's not John's fault, of course. Ironically, it wasn't even _Sherlock'_s fault. There were no errant falls into the Thames or long chases through the rain. He'd been eating semi-regularly and occasionally swallowing the multivitamins that John shoved at him. The onset of the pneumonia was just an unfortunate part of being human; proof that his body wasn't a machine after all. In a word: _Hateful. _

_My fucking _hair _hurts._

But then, so did everything else.

_Body clammy. Cold chills. Fever. Hard to breathe. _The material of the sofa is rough beneath his sensitive skin and he closes his eyes tightly against the too-bright glare of milky light filtering through the curtain, his traitorous, hypersensitive strands of hair dragging painfully along the pillow as he turns away from the window. In the background, John comes thumping merrily down the stairs, gate smooth and regular, and Sherlock's head pounds with each step. _No limp, then. Good to know at least one of us got a decent night's sleep. _The thought is sarcastic and hateful but he doesn't care because his body is hateful and life is hateful and hateful thoughts are honest thoughts, not that he's ever cared much for honesty.

John ignores him completely when he walks through to the kitchen and it pisses Sherlock off because he's sick and John is a doctor and also his friend and if the latter didn't make it happen, doctors at least are supposed to care about sick people.

He opens his mouth to tell John what a terrible doctor he is but all that comes out is a wracking coughing fit, so he settles for curling in on himself more tightly and drawing his robe around his knees, bloody hair _aching. _His skin is so sensitive that he can actually _feel _the displaced air as John turns around and comes back to check before the 'doctor' ever says, "Sherlock? You alright?"

_No. I'm dying and you don't care. _The thought is there but the detective doesn't answer, just coughs piteously again and turns his face into the pillow, wishes for a cigarette.

Sighing with exasperation and perhaps some affection, John moves to stand by the sofa and peers down at Sherlock, amused. "Come down with something, have you?" The detective turns eyes up to glare murderously, but remains silent. "Alright, alright." John laughs and Sherlock's eyelashes twitch. "Budge up a bit and we'll see what's the matter."

Sherlock very pointedly does _not _budge up, because he is ill and John ignored him and showing up now does not mean Sherlock owes him any favors. John heaves an irritated sigh. "Right, well. Can the great consulting four year old at least tell me where it hurts?"

_The beds of my nails. _Sherlock continues to glare angrily and coughs again. The action wracks his body, chest burning, head pounding. _My skin. My lungs. My bloody hair follicles_._ You're the doctor. Deduce it. _

John takes in the wet cough and Sherlock's flushed face with concerned eyes. Without a thought, he presses one broad palm to the delicately aching skin of his friend's forehead to gauge his temperature. It hurts. His skin feels too thin, and it's as if John's hand is rubbing against millions of exposed nerve endings. It's strange because John's touch doesn't usually hurt, and made even stranger by the fact that despite the raw, aching pain of it, Sherlock's first instinct is to press up into the contact. _How odd. Ninth case of unusual response to John-Watson-based stimuli. Need to make note of it fo- _

"Christ, Sherlock, you're burning up. Why didn't you say something?" Oh. A fever. Well, that would certainly explain some of th- But John doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't even let Sherlock finish his train of thought before he's trying to get his compact, muscled arms around the detective's sore torso to bring him into a more upright position. "C'mon, up with you. That fever's entirely too high. I want you at the A&E."

Sherlock would protest that he lives with a doctor and the point of living with a doctor is so that you don't have to go in and see them, but his body is somehow heavier than he's used to, and when combined with the way his skin rubs raw against everything he touches, struggling just doesn't seem worth it. And, like an unwitting reward for his acquiescence, John doesn't take his hands away from Sherlock's shoulders.

"Do you think you can dress yourself, or are we going like this?" And that's a ridiculous question if Sherlock has ever heard one, he's not _that _sick, hasn't been since- he coughs again and black spots dance in front of his vision so that he has to close his eyes against the nausea that tries to well up in response to the sudden dizziness. The only thing that keeps him upright is the gentle strength of John's hands. "Alright, that settles it." John moves so that he's sitting on the sofa at Sherlock's side, one arm back around the detective's shoulder's, supporting him as he pulls his mobile from the pocket of his trousers and dials for a cab. Sherlock just nods, eyes still closed, and leans back into the solid, comforting weight of his friend despite the way it makes his bones throb.


End file.
